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ComteQ Publishing

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Margate, New Jersey 08402

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Website: www.ComteQpublishing.com

ISBN# 9781935232810

Book and cover design by Rob Huberman

Printed in the United States of America

In memory of my cousin, Gino Berlin, the eldest son of my uncle Majer, who had taken over much of my upbringing in the absence of my father. Gino passed away suddenly, much too soon, much too young, and before he could translate this book into Italian so that his extended family would know about the past.

Author’s Introduction

For nearly all of the sixty-odd years since the end of World War II, I hardly mentioned the Holocaust or my experiences in it.
And yet, this period covered the first ten years of my life and has had a dramatic and traumatic effect on me. Life kept me busy and I buried the memory of that time fairly deep. My mother, my uncle, friends and acquaintances familiar with my past―or those who shared in it―occasionally would remark on an episode. For the most part, however, we were mute on the subject. Neither my husband nor my children knew much about it, just a single event mentioned in passing and made to sound irrelevant.

But years have passed and those who have experienced the Holocaust are disappearing. Death is no longer something far on the horizon but a frequent visitor to many around me. And so, it seems that I must take the chance of telling my story, a story that was a part of the horror my people experienced.

I have no illusions that another thread in the weave of the narratives about the Holocaust will make any difference: the deniers of it will keep denying, the haters will keep hating, genocides will keep occurring. I only want my children, my (few) relatives, my friends, and those readers interested in the historical horrors of the twentieth century to know that once there was a little girl who, through no fault of her own, had to lie and pretend so she could live to see another day.

This book, then, is dedicated to my husband, who knew my many irrational fears and my need for a father figure, and never ceased to treat me as a princess; to my children, Adria and Jeff, who did not even notice that I spoke English with a bit of an accent until their friends mentioned it; to my relatives spread around the globe, in Australia, Israel, and Italy, who always wanted me to write about my life; and to the many friends, old and new, who motivated me to write and supported me in the endeavor. Thanks so much Sharon, Yvonne, Robbie, and a special thanks to Alice Kemper, who suggested the title.

Erna Kamerman Perry, aka Danusia Kruczewska

CHRISTIAN BY DISGUISE

A Story of Survival

We walked and ran, ran and walked, for an eternity. Once in a while, out of breath, we stopped by a haystack and drank in the sweet smell of the hay while our hearts lessened their racing. Fear was stronger than fatigue, however, and we dared not stop or linger for long. I was a small girl, barely five years old, and I had not eaten anything of substance in several days. Mother was dragging me by my hand but I was numb with fear and fatigue, and was not making her progress any easier.

Night had been approaching when we had started to run. Now the sky was very black, and out here in the country the stars stood out like silver coins on black velvet. A full moon illuminated the stacks of hay. I had never been outside at night in the country and the shapes I thought I saw in every direction added to my fear. I determined to stop thinking about our current situation. In fact, I thought, it would be better not to think about anything, and just focus on running. But I could not control my thoughts.

Stories I had heard kept going through my mind, stories from my previous life. What I was seeing now, for instance, reminded me of a book Mother had read to me, about Africa. In the book there was a picture of an African village. The haystacks in the fields we were crossing now looked just like those African huts, and they shone like gold in the moonlight. Gold made me think of another fairy tale, about an old man who was able to turn hay into gold. I couldn't remember the details of the tale, nor its entire plot, but only the fact that at least in fairy tales, hay could be turned into gold. These thoughts kept me busy so that I was able to continue running, in spite of being exhausted. It also made me forget—for a moment—the terrible danger we were in.

Out of breath, gulping for air, we were finally nearing our goal: the train station of Drohobycz, the town we were desperately trying to get away from unnoticed. Drohobycz was Mother's native town, and many people knew her there and would easily recognize her. Though she had many friends there, of all religions, this time she wouldn't be greeted as a friend. She would be pointed out as a Jew, walking outside the ghetto minus her armband. This was our reality now: we were no longer normal people, living normal lives, walking normal streets, in the cities and villages of Poland. No, we were being hunted and killed, on the streets by violence and gunfire, or in slave labor camps by violence and starvation. This was how Mother and Dad had explained to me the horrific events of the recent past, and the constant need to hide, to flee, to dissemble, if we were to survive. But I did not understand why.

By the time we approached the station the sky had begun to gray. There was no suggestion of dawn yet, none of that lovely pink on the horizon that I had observed when I would wake early, the sun beginning to peek out from behind the clouds, waking from its sleep as well. It was simply no longer pitch black. And the stars were beginning to fade.

We could see the lights of the station, although they were rather dim, not at all as sharp as they had looked before the war. Still, they were the first lights we had seen in a long time, and their brilliance hurt my eyes—a knife splitting the darkness of the night.

We stopped to shake out our dresses and attempt to construct the image of just another middle-class Polish lady and her daughter, dressed for a trip to visit relatives. Pieces of hay had stuck to our hair, and we did our best to compose ourselves. I was so tired that I wanted to sit down, right there on the sidewalk. Mother wouldn't let me, of course, but continued to primp.

Mother had a beautiful face, perfectly oval, with large dark eyes and shiny coal black hair wound around her head in a braid. But now her beauty was veiled with worry, with uncertainty, and mostly with unadulterated fear. I thought she looked a bit scary, as she did when we were playing and she pretended to be "Baba Jaga," the witch. I was always somewhat afraid of her when we played that game, not sure who she really was at the moment. I knew that she was my mother, but I was also afraid that some transformation could have occurred, some magic could have happened, and that she really had become a witch. She looked like this now, but now it was she who was afraid.

She pulled out a scarf from the one small bag we had managed to bring with us and put it around her neck, not on her head like the peasant women wore. She adjusted the collar on my dress and pulled out the necklace I wore with pride. It was a silver crucifix with the figure of Jesus on a silver chain, and it had slipped underneath: "Danusia," she said, "You must remember that this is your name now."

“I know, I know.”

"This is very important. If you make a mistake, they will arrest us, or shoot us right here on sight, or we'll end up in a camp, and they will separate us, and who knows what will..."

"You don't have to tell me. I know everything. I don't want to die. I just want to find Daddy..." I was about to cry. I loved my tatus, perhaps more than my mother. She was the disciplinarian, and had become very impatient and short-tempered since the war. The reason for her behavior was clear, but I was only a little girl, and I simply thought that she had turned mean. Perhaps she had stopped loving me, for some reason. I got along better with my dad.

Dad was the one who would talk to me and answer my questions, who taught me how to tell time, who taught me the alphabet, who complimented me about how smart I was. He often told the story to whomever was there to hear it of the dream he had when I was born. In the dream, he saw a large book and within it my name was inscribed in gold letters (I was named after his mother and the dream might have had some special meaning for him). "Some day, you will be someone important. Perhaps a writer, since your name appeared in a book." I overheard him tell Mother that he was not superstitious and did not believe in dreams, that this dream was only an expression of his hope for me, and not a prophesy about my future. For me, it was still a nice vision—that book with my name in gold. It was meant to have me feel special.

I knew that Dad was our protector. I feared that without him we would perish, and now he was gone.

Mother stopped me: "No time for crying now. Put on a smile, and let's see if we can get out of here, where everyone knows who I am. And I'm sure we'll find Daddy when this horror is over."

We had reached the entrance to the train station. Stepping in we were confronted by a vision of utter chaos. This area was supposed to be a waiting room, and indeed there were people waiting, hundreds of them, stretched out on the ground, sitting on suitcases, on bundles, on newspapers. The original seats were totally invisible as the people sitting on them were covered by children on their laps or leaning against them, or by bundles of clothes and food. Because the seats were arranged on an upgrade, as in a theater, it looked as if there were people sitting on other people's heads. It was almost comical; later, when I thought about the scene, it would remind me of some of Brueghel's paintings, the ones with the dancing and celebrating farmers, with a large number of figures helter-skelter on the canvas. Perhaps Chagall had it right, putting cows and people floating in the sky.

The stench that hit us was more characteristic of a barn than of a train station waiting room. But what froze us with fear was the sight, at the opposite end of the room, of a group of Polish policemen, and inside a room, visible through a glass partition, the gray-blue-green uniforms we knew only too well: German officers, mostly the SS.

We continued walking in and found a seat on the floor, in a corner. I knew that Mother was trying to be inconspicuous, so I too made myself small, putting my legs under me and my head on Mother's lap. I was so tired, I would have gladly fallen asleep, except that I was also hungry and I eyed enviously the thick black bread spread with butter that a woman near us was handing to her child. We, of course, had nothing, and had eaten nothing for two days, since the men had not come to bring us food, as they had every day until this day.

Suddenly, there was a commotion to our right. I saw an old peasant woman—I knew she was a peasant because of what she wore: a long skirt of an indefinite color, a blouse with red and blue embroidery in a cross stitch, some kind of heavy shawl, and a babushka on her head in garish colors of red and green. I was a child, but I knew the distinction in looks between city people and country people, between Poles and Ukrainians, between Jews and all others. I also knew whom to fear: the Germans first, and the Ukrainian peasants next.

"These two who just came in are Jews" the old crone started to shout.

"Look at them, there they are, they're trying to hide. Look, look at them. You can tell they're Jews."

"Sit down, old woman, leave them alone," a voice said.

"No, why should I?" Other voices pitched in. " Maybe the old woman is right. Maybe they are Jews." There was shouting all around, in Polish and Ukrainian. Then someone said:

"Right, let's find out for sure. Call one of the policemen, I just saw one in the office."

I felt a buzzing in my head, I don't know whether because of the fear that flooded my body, or because people were talking all at once. I couldn't hear everything they were saying, but I knew it was going to be bad. Mother motioned to the seam of my dress. I knew what she meant. Dad had given us each a small vial of poison, cyanide, I believe.

"If you ever get caught by the Germans, take this. It will be easier than what they have in mind for you..." he had said.

We sat, speechless. It was useless to deny anything, there was too much noise with all these people speaking at once.

Before long, we saw two uniformed men coming toward us. One was obviously an SS officer: I knew their uniform with the black lightning-style SS on the collar. He was accompanied by a German shepherd dog. The other was a Polish policeman.

"Aufstehen (Get up)," the German said, as the dog began to sniff us. I didn't know what to fear more, the German or the dog. But we got up, and Mother was saying in Polish, "I don't know what this woman is talking about. I have to go to Krakow to see my sister who is ill. I'm waiting for a train like everyone else and she starts ..."

"Schweigen!" I knew it meant to be quiet. I didn't know German, but I had heard my grandparents speaking Yiddish, and many of the words were the same or similar.

The Polish policeman tried to be pleasant.

"This woman has an affidavit from the Gestapo stating that she is very good at pointing out Jews. She's already found a great number of Jews who were trying to pass as Christians. So you have to forgive her if she is bothering you. You, prosze pani (something like "kind lady" in Polish), look like a good Catholic to me, but the German will want proof."

"What can I do?" Mother asked, with a smile at the policeman who obviously thought her pretty—thank God for Mother's Polish looks! "I don't carry my Baptism certificate in my purse!"

"Not you, but the little girl, if she knows our Catholic prayers, the German said he would let you go. No child could learn our prayers unless they were learned from the time they were babies."

"Danusiu, show the nice policeman how well you know your prayers" Mother said to me, smiling at the policeman.

I knew what I had to do. We had practiced for weeks in the hiding place in the barn. I knelt and crossed myself. "W imie ojca i syna i ducha swietego." In the name of the father and the son and the holy ghost. I knew every prayer from the prayer book Dad had brought us, from "Our Father," to the ones to the Virgin Mary, the Mother of God, as well as prayers to angels, and those you say at night, before bed, and those you say in the morning when you get up, and the rosary— though I did not have one, I knew what it was and I placed my fingers as if I were touching each bead. I was only unsure about that holy ghost: I had heard some ghost stories, and was afraid of them, and did not know whether this ghost had evil intentions toward us, or not. But I said all these prayers well, with conviction, for I badly wanted to live, and didn't want to take what was in the vial in the seam of my dress. And I believed that Jesus and Mary and the angel who was supposed to protect me would do their job if I were sincere. And I was sincere, I was sincere!

The dog's warm breath was on my neck. The old woman was waving some papers, I guess it was the affidavit the policeman had mentioned. But I was focused on the prayers, I could see the pages where they were printed in the prayer book in my mind. I had read them by myself, although I was not a good reader yet. I had never been to school and knew only what Mother and Dad had taught me. They had taught me the alphabet and I remembered the Eureka day when I realized that letters had sounds, and putting the sounds of letters together made words. So I had read the prayers on my own, in addition to having Mother read them to me, and I knew them very well.

In the middle of my recitation I heard the policeman say to the German: "Dass muss sein ein katholisches Kind. Sie kann doch alle unsere Gebeten!" – this must he a Catholic child. She knows all our prayers.

The dog was constantly smelling all around me, and I was petrified of him, but I continued to recite every prayer I knew, until the Polish words Dobrze, dobrze. Juz dosyc – stop. "Good girl, go on like this and you will go to heaven for sure! Get up, get up, it's all right. I wish my daughter would know the prayers as well as you do."

Suddenly, the German started calling the dog, and I saw him turn back in the direction of the office. The policeman smiled at Mother and actually apologized!

"Sorry for the trouble. A crazy old woman. Don't pay any attention to her. Some of them seem to see a Jew on every corner. They pay them, you know, so they plan on getting rich by finding Jews. Try to rest, the train to Krakow will be here soon...I hope. You know, the trains don't run on time at all, all schedules are under the command of the Germans and all trains go where they want them to go. I'll say good night now."

Thank goodness he was leaving now too. He was positively in a conversational mood, doubtless thanks to Mother's good looks. But the old woman kept yelling: "I found hundreds of them already. I can smell them, those bloodsuckers, those Christ killers. The woman may be Polish, but that child, that child is a Yid. She's trying to save a Jewish child, she thinks it's a Christian thing to do. A Christian thing is to have the Germans get rid of them once and for all! This dumb German is letting them go free, I have to look for a smarter one." On and on she yelled, all the time while we were waiting for the train, and even when the train arrived, she still kept yelling.

We kept a low profile. Every compartment was crowded, but we found one in which we could sit in a corner. Some of the people were sympathetic to us, smiling and remarking about how people got crazy in a war. But others looked at us with doubt and hostility, turning their gaze away.

The train kept stopping at small stations all night long. I would barely fall asleep and then the lights in our compartment would go on and a whiff of cold air would wake me. Our sleep was not the sleep of innocents, anyway. The old Ukrainian kept screaming at us still, even though we were several compartments further away from her. Most people had stopped listening to her, busy with more practical issues such as what was there to eat, would they ever be able to use the bathroom, could they close their eyes without fear of someone stealing their luggage. Still the woman kept spilling her vitriol.

I was beginning to feel ill. Perhaps it was just hunge—the few perishables we had in the barn had disappeared several days earlier. Perhaps it was sheer fear. I felt hot and queasy but I didn't want to say anything to Mother who, I knew, had more important issues to worry about.

Finally, the train stopped. We had arrived in Krakow. We sneaked out as rapidly as possible. Mother held my hand very tightly, but I knew it was because she was trying to avoid the Ukrainian, and I didn't complain.

Mother had never been in Krakow before. She had an address, but how she ever found it, I don't know. She was dragging me through street after street, apartment buildings and churches passing by my tired eyes. She was afraid to ask passersby where the street was, but I was becoming indignant. By now I was feeling very sick and would have to stop and rest, in spite of her entreaties to keep going.

After a long and painful time she found a street name and number that corresponded to the address Uncle Majer had given her. I remember him saying: "My friend from the university married a Polish girl. Her family are nice people. They might help you. The important thing is that you must get out of Drohobycz, where everyone knows you."

We walked into the building and climbed marble stairs to the third floor. I was exhausted and feeling sick and hot, so I lay down on the stairs going up to the next floor while Mother rang the doorbell.

A man answered the door. He was fairly young—he would have been the age of my uncle—and refined looking. He surveyed the scene with obvious bewilderment while Mother attempted to make our case—she was Majer's sister, I was her daughter, we needed somewhere to stay and help in getting a job. While Mother was talking to him, a woman came and stood by him.

"What's going on? Who is this?"

He related Mother's conversation and her pleas.

"Impossible! How can you ask us to keep you here? You know the Germans have spies everywhere. You know they send agents to check identification. You know what will happen to us if they find you here, and you without papers!"

Mother continued to speak. I heard her say that Majer had spoken highly of them, that he had been a good friend to Karol, their relative, that he had felt sure they would help. But the woman was not moved.

"I'm sorry all this is happening to you Jews. Majer is a very nice man, we like him, his friend Karol is married to my sister and we all had fun at the university, Majer even helped us with a project. But this is beyond what we can do! We would be killed! You know this!" And she tried to close the door.

The man had been silent while the woman—she must have been his wife—spoke. I saw him looking in my direction.

"Why is the child lying down?" he suddenly said, putting his foot in the doorstep so the door would not close.

"She..." Mother started to say. Then she looked at me.

"My God! Look at her face! What is wrong with her?!"

"Let me see," the man said and I saw him walking toward me.

He bent down to my level and looked at me fixedly. Then he put his palm on my forehead.

"She's burning up! And those pimples on her face are probably chicken pox—or they could be measles. You better take her to a doctor!"

"A doctor!? You must be joking! You know I can't go anywhere without papers. And I don't have any money either. Oh my God, what will I do?"

The man was looking at the woman inside the apartment now.

"Stasia, we can't leave them on the street. The child is sick!"

"I don't care, she'll get us killed! They can't stay here, that's all there is to it!"